A Different Game
by PiscesGold
Summary: In which a few pieces move differently, and the Game varies.
1. Eddard I

The sounds of steel clashing and shield bashing woke the Lord of Winterfell out of his slumber, his hand rushed to the dagger at his desk. He needed a few moments to remember where he was. His face turned into a scowl as his body ached with stiffness. He moaned, and tried to ease his soreness. _I've fallen asleep again_ He thought, as he gently rubbed his eyes.

The small dark room was made visible by the frail sunlight that insisted in creeping in by the window. The ray of light managed, however, to light the scrolls and parchments that stood in the sturdy wooden desk, reminding him of last night's unfinished tasks _. I will finish it soon_ he promised to himself.

He stirred again, and decided it was time to rise. He summoned the strength of his legs, and they failed him. His hand, however, did not, as it managed to take hold of a nearby shelter, saving him of kissing the cold, hard, floor.

 _Young no more_ his mind whispered softly to him, as he straightened back to his feet. He gave timid steps closer to his privy and basin, eager to refresh and be relieved.

After his needs had been attended, he beckoned to the basin. The cold water removed the last traces of sleep in his features. As he reached for a piece of wool, he stared into his face, and took his time judging it.

His dark hair was at shoulder length, and as he ran his fingers through it, some patches of it came with it. His beard covered his face, and he admitted with some grudge he looked older than he was. Eddard was near his fourth decade in this life, and yet the days where he and Robert spent on the Eyrie were still fresh in his mind. But the grey and white did not lie.

That _will not do,_ he mused. The Lord of Winterfell needed to look strong and fierce to his folk, and not a tired, old, lone wolf.

He tied his hair back with a small piece of leather and carefully trimmed his beard with a small knife. Once he was pleased on how he looked, he went back to the dark room to change his attire. He had worn the same for years now. Dark, sturdy boiled leather and a clean chain mail, dark breeches and boots. And to guard him of ever chiller winds, his fur coat. Finally, he crossed the room to retrieve the resting Ice, strapping it on his back.

A War attire, to be sure, but one he spent days accustomed to it. _Just like Brandon used to wear._

Finally, he stepped upon the dais, the sun striking at his eyes. It didn't take long to trace what had taken him out of his sleep.

Many lords in Westeros didn't spend much attention to their offspring. Most viewed them as flesh and blood tools, born to serve them or to contribute to their house's legacy.

The second son of Rickard Stark was not among them.

Ned loved his sons and daughters. Unlike his father, he made an effort to be close to his children, even when his duties weighted heavily on his shoulder. Even in something ordinary as practice, he could read them as if they were an open book.

Below, at the training ground, his children struggled, under the watchful eyes of Ser Rodrick Cassel.

His firstborn and heir, Robb, trained with the hostage, the Greyjoy boy.

Eddard tried to accommodate Balon's last son, giving him much more than the other Lords would give. The boy was raised amongst his own, and Eddard made sure that Theon was to be respected by the people as if he was a Stark himself. In turn, the boy came to respect him, and there were often days where he had shown up at his Solar, late at night, seeking comfort.

 _I could not deny him then._ Ned's shoulders slumped, as he remembered the day when he took charge of the little, frightened child.

But as his eyes saw, and Robb's arm surely felt, Theon was no longer a boy. He had grown, and while his strength wasn't greater than Robert's, a man grown he was. And skilled with a bow, he saw it many times past. _Would I be able to strike him down, after all these years?_ The thought turned his empty guts cold. But he knew that one day Theon would return to the Iron Islands, and a decision would be made. Eddard hoped with great eagerness of a day that the Iron Islands and the North would make peace. And Theon might be the key to it. He _might_.

His thoughts shifted to his firstborn, and the cold he felt quickly sipped away from him.

Robb managed to regain the upper hand, and bring great trouble to his ward. _My first son._ He had the auburn hair and the looks of a Tully, but one could not deny he was a Stark. Eddard had heard many times as the boy grew that Winterfell and himself was to be proud of its heir, From common folk to even most of the other lords. _He's still a summer boy_ was the unspoken response. And deep in him, Ned knew it true.

Robb was a strong, just and obedient son. One a Lord would be glad and prideful to have. And Eddard was no exception to it. But Robb was born and raised in the safety of his shadow and the strong, hard walls of Winterfell. _Winter has not come to him yet, but it will,_ he knew. And then and only then, Robb would prove his worthiness. _As I did._

"I yield" Theon said, as he had his back to the ground and a sword pointed at him. It seemed no harm was done, given the smile across both of their faces, and Robb helped him stand.

Satisfied, Eddard's eyes searched for his other children, soon finding his second youngest son under heavy sweat as he punished mercilessly his straw opponent with a sword. An amusing sight, he had to concede. _Poor Bran._ As much as his boy struggled, he would never match his namesake. And Eddard should be ashamed to feel glad for it, but he would not.

Brandon the elder came into this world with a sword in his hand, everyone used to say. No sane man could deny his skill with a sword, or his fierceness or the so potent wolf's blood that filled his veins. _The blood that made and unmade him_ he acknowledged, as his heart felt sorrow and pain, even after all these years.

His Brandon, however, would prove himself in other ways, he knew. Maester Luwin's reports always spoke high of the child. _He has_ _a mind sharper than any blade_ the Maester often said about his third child. Brandon might not be a warrior, but could be a great lord. _One that will assist his brother in the harshness of the coming winter._

The boy's arm finally gave, and before Ned could give him praise, his attention was brought elsewhere, as a pain filled scream crossed the courtyard. He darted trough the dais, for he instantly recognized the voice.

His eyes found the cause and seconds later he was laughing, which alarmed everyone to his presence. Yet, how could one simply stand still at such a scene?

Below, his elder daughter stood in misery, as she had fallen into the wet ground, soiling her beautiful face, auburn hair and clothes. A much unfit place to a lady. Sadly, the smaller girl who kept her into said ground did not.

"Enough, Arya. Let go of your sister" He ordered, after regaining control of himself. His daughter gave a wicked smile, and obeyed. Sansa's face was as red as her hair, with both anger and embarrassment. She was about to cry and urge him to punish her sister, but he would have none of it. "Grab your sword and continue" he told her, ignoring her bewilderment.

After sensing he would not yield, Sansa picked the sword and prepared to face an eager Arya. The blush from her face disappeared as the crowd's interest. Ser Rodrick instructed them to resume, and they did. Arya rapidly gained the upper hand.

 _She resembles her so much._ He thought fondly. Arya had been the only one of his offspring that was a Stark in feature and in personality. She had his pale skin, dark hair, long face and grey eyes. Most of all, she inherited the Wolf's blood.

Once, when she was younger and much smaller, she mounted a horse on her own and rushed through the gates, giving start to a wild chase and search, as she disappeared into the woods. He himself brought her back into Winterfell, after a frantic search with his men. _Caitlyn was in tears. And my own almost fell._

Later, when he questioned her, Arya said she felt the need to ride. From that day onward, He permitted her to train amongst her brothers. She was punished, but she never showed remorse or ever left the yards, much to her mother's dismay, but not his. It was for the best, he knew. _I will not fail her like father did Lyanna._

His daughters continued their sparring, if one would consider it to be one. Again, Sansa was on the ground, but this time she had tried to hit Arya wit unsure footing, and slipped. _This will not do,_ he sighted.

His elder girl was most unlike her younger, wild sister. She was sweet, docile and tame. She knew her courtesies better than all of her siblings, and loved the songs of knights and their chivalry, of ladies and their beauty. A Southron lady in all. His wife and her Septa took pride and joy in that.

But he did not, for he knew the reality of war. The songs never tell about how men butcher each other, surrounded by blood, pain and scream; how men soil themselves, while begging for mercy only to receive none, how children and old alike are put to the sword without mercy, and how women were taken and raped and killed. That was the unspoken and terrible truth of war. And he knew it well. Gods, he _knew_ it well.

Eddard took a deep breath, and curled his hands into fists, as he recomposed himself and reminded that he was at Winterfell. _The war is over_ , he told himself countless times, until the dread feeling dimished, and he felt at ease again.

Sansa, however, still fared no better. _Perhaps I ought to send her to Bear Island, Maege and her daughters would do her good._ He thought, fully knowing Caitlyn would not take it well. _No matter. She'll obey if I command, as I did before_.

To his dismay, nobility and common folk knew about their troubled union. She was never meant to marry him, or wanted. She wanted Brandon, it was known, and he wanted another lady. A tall, most beautiful lady with deep violet eyes, whose beauty he would never gaze again. Alas, the gods had other plans for them, and they honored their houses and did their duty. She had given him and House Stark five strong children, and he was grateful for it. _She might doubt it, but I am._

For she could never truly accept the boy, he knew.

She would never accept Jon. A Stark in all but name. His promise.

Ever since he held the boy in his arms, long years ago, in that accursed tower, he knew he would love him as well as any other son. The secret child of his beloved sister, and Rhaegar Targaryen. Even now his heart pained when he had declared the infant his bastard, still knowing, however, that was the best way to ensure that the child lived. Some days, he wanted to send a raven to all the noble houses of Westeros that Jon was a trueborn prince, that Lyanna wasn't raped and that Rhaegar was a brooding, prophecy filled fool, but not a rapist.

Yet, he never did, for he knew the so, so dire consequences.

He had told the lie to him, years ago, making the child understand his status. He felt a dagger in his heart when he saw the tears on little Jon's face.

And yet, days after that, Jon aspired to be the best he could .He honed his skill with a sword every day, a strike better than the last. He would often ride hard and fast until he was too sore to dismount. He spent the most attention to Luwin's teachings, even if the letters did not come easily to him. And often he had to be commanded to sleep, for the boy would study hours after. As a result, Luwin said the boy had developed a good understanding of the ways of war.

Rodrik Cassel, his master- at- arms, had said more than once that Jon was competent with a lance, good with a bow and best with a sword. _He will be a fierce warrior, someday_. Ned knew. One a lord would cherish to have at his command, while others would loath to be against.

And today, he would see him. _Gods, it has been too long._

Three years ago, when Jon turned three and ten, he had sent him down to the Neck, to be under the care of his most loyal banner man, Howland Reed. In the eyes of Westeros, it seemed that Lord Stark tried to amend the relationship with his wife. While he had to acknowledge that Caitlyn was glad Jon was no longer with them, she wasn't the true reason behind his action.

He did it for Jon. And for himself, for he could not watch his dear boy in constant brooding. _The lie was consuming him_. Ned could not ignore that his lips seldom smiled _. A beautiful smile, same as Lyanna's_. And he could not ignore that it was his lie that made it vanish, either if said lie was for the greater good. So he had let him go. And three long years passed since.

The Lord of Winterfell heard a horn being blown at the main gate, taking him out of his mind. While others were confused and visibly alarmed by the sound of it, he was not. _Howland and Jon have arrived_ .He had long waited for this moment. A guard came and informed him of what he already knew, and he then dispatched him with a command. Almost immediately after, Eddard descend from this solar to the hall, and finally was across the yard, there he stood, as what was expected of him. The gates of Winterfell slowly opened.

Soon, a company of male riders swept the yard, no more than ten. All of them bore no color or sigil, only with dark worn breeches and jerkins, and thick hoods that covered their faces. One rider dismounted and walked closer to him, stopping at a respectful distance.

"Lord Stark. I answer your summons" The man said and removed his hood, as he bended his knee. The others kneeled as same.

"Rise, My Lord. Winterfell welcomes you, Howland. As do I" Ned replied, Lifting the smaller man and putting his arms around him, as if he was a long lost brother. In a sense, Howland was. In the war, the lords had grown close, for they shared blood, tears and secrets. Eddard had to greater ally or friend, one he could trust with the direst of secrets, as he did.

"It's good to see you again, Ned. It has been too long." Reed spoke. Eddard used to receive letters from his banner man regularly, but have never seen him since the end of Robert's Rebellion, ages ago.

"Indeed. My Lord, have you brought him? Where is the boy?" Eddard asked impatiently, eagerness in his voice. If Reed felt any offense, he did not show it.

"Boy, you ask? I've brought no boy with me" He answered, and made a gesture with his arm.

A tall and slender rider came forth, dismounted and made his face known.

But everything Eddard could see, however, was Lyanna, leaving him speechless. Jon had a dark, long hair that went past his shoulders. A long, pale face that had all the features of a Stark. From Rheagar Targaryen, he inherited nothing but his eyes. Jon had a set of violet clear eyes.

"Lord Stark" Jon greeted him, with a different voice that he used to hear. The cracked voice was no longer, only a deep, beautiful voice remained. _A singer's voice._ He recognized. It was only fitting, considering his parentage.

"Jon. Welcome home" He said, and timidly outstretched his arms.

For a brief moment, nothing happened. In a second, however, Eddard arms were filled. And his heart with it. "Father" Jon whispered softy, and Ned felt tears upon his coat. He never cared, for his own eyes were wet. And for once he was no longer Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, but only a man who had his son back.

Until Arya screamed Jon's name, and rushed to meet him. Ned saw his youngest daughter leap into Jon, with impulse to knock a man down. But Jon did not fall. He caught her, enveloping his arms around her. They soon became a mess of sobs and tears. _Only proper. She missed him more than anyone._

Soon, Robb and Bran came as well, joining and embracing them. Ned approved, and noted that Sansa and Rickon did not come. One glance back and he saw his wife's outrage controlled in her Tully's eyes. _She will not allow them_. _But I will._ Eddard narrowed his eyes, giving an unspoken command to his lady wife. She understood, and left the courtyard in stone steps, as Sansa and Rickon joined their siblings.

He took his time searing the image presented to him to the depths of his memory. _When the snows fall and white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives_ his father had taught him years ago. And yet Brandon, Lyanna and even Benjen left him. He now was the lone wolf. And he would see that this packed survived. He would.


	2. Tyrion I

Tyrion cursed after struggling to remain atop of his horse. The howling of _not so far away_ wolfs apparently spooked _again_ his not so gentle mount. _We still haven't reached Winterfell and already so many bloody wolfs_ He thought bitterly.

A pack of wolves plagued the Royal party ever since they had left the South. They never came close enough to offer danger, at least not to him _,_ but it seems they were quite fond of stalking. The beasts were always watching, always present, as if foreign, exquisite beings had entered their grounds. Some soldiers spoke that it was the ghosts of fallen old northerners that possessed the animals, still bent on opposing the Andal men. Tyrion knew much better.

On a very frequent basis, the King's appetite needed to be sated. The scent of the small banquets inevitably summoned the monsters. He, however, could not blame them too much, though. The North so far seemed to be harsh even to its natural occupants. _Worse, every day it passes the Stark's words became truer_. He realized, as he pulled his heavy fur coat closer to him. Grimly, he realized they were still in summer, and the shadow of winter sent a chill down his already cold spine. He needed to get warm.

"Wine" he grumbled, only to receive no answer. "Wine" he spoke louder, but if anyone heard, they ignored him. The rightful heir of Casterly Rock was about to shout when a wineskin was thrown into his lap.

"Thank you, good Ser…" He turned to where the wine came.

"Jaime Lannister of the Kinsguard. Infamously known as Kingslayer" A man replied in a mock filled voice.

The sight of his beautiful, white clad brother bought a grin to his face. "My favorite sibling" He greeted, cheering for Jaime before taking a good gulp of the drink, bringing much needed heat to his body. The Lionet of the Rock stretched his limbs, enjoying the fine Arbour Gold wine. _Perhaps I should thank Robert for his drinking vice._

"I assume his Grace is still asleep?"

"You assume correctly, brother. It seems the great King Robert is still recovering from last night's hunting" he replied, barely containing the laughter from his words.

 _Of course he is_. Eventually, even the thrill seeking King had enough of the constant howling. So he decided to hunt them in their own territory; Dense, dark and vast woods, and unsure ground in the blackest of nights.

Apparently the North's old gods were not in his favor. The King brought to the hunt five men and Ser Barristan Selmy, all armed with good steel and carrying torches, only to fail. Worse, Robert's horse missed a step in the dark, and the King had flown out his saddle. _A sight to be seen, no doubt._ Thankfully, his pride suffered the worst. Enraged, Robert drank himself to a heavy sleep. _And poor Cersei was left without any consort._

"Tell me, good brother, how it feels to be so close yet so far from what you desire most?" He hushed, for that was a rather treasonous conversation.

"Maddening" was his response, not bothering to hide his frustration, anger clear in his so beautiful features. "Perhaps I'll fare better when we reach that frozen rock of the Starks" he growled.

"Perhaps" _Jaime, you fool._ Even if he said it to him, as he did it countless times, his brother would not listen.

Tyrion learned about his sibling's rather _unusual_ activities _too long_ ago. He often mused how so beautiful heads were not in a spike adorning the walls of the Red Keep. Cersei undoubtedly managed to keep their incestuous and rather _fruitful_ affair well hidden. Jaime was too rash, prideful and too stupid to keep such dangerous charade.

 _And they see me as the lesser son._ He lamented to himself. In some ways, he had to admit that he was.

Tyrion wasn't an ugly man; at least he did not think he was. _Far from it, if I can trust whores and lesser ladies_. He had green eyes, a fair straight hair, and a not so common face; Yet Cersei had two bright emeralds for eyes, Golden locks so soft and bright and such beautiful features that even the maids of the sweet songs would be jealous of.

At the Rock, as any other highborn son, Tyrion learned how to swing a blade and lift a shield, and how to mount a horse and use the lance. But he never did any of these with even a quarter of his brother's grace. Neither did he develop a body, strength or even a will for battle similar to Jaime, much to his father's disappointment. _It matters not. I was awarded with a most precious gift_. He mused.

Tywin Lannister was once a young, handsome man, Tyrion did not doubt it. Nor did he doubt his father's sword arm. But, Tywin Lannister wasn't feared because of his features or because of his skill with a sword, no. He was feared for his intelligence, and for his ruthlessness. Tyrion inherited the first, and had in him some of the latter. Sadly, it was a fact few people knew, and fewer yet cared. Tyrion was a man grown, but the acknowledgment he has been denied for years still managed to hurt him, as an old scar that itched from time to time. _Let they see me as a whoring, drunkard, useless second son. It can only serve me._ He thought.

For he had sworn so many years ago he would rise in this world. Further than his siblings had managed to and, most importantly, he would one day become greater than his own father. They would be in _his_ shadow. _No longer a lionet, but a great Lion, the greatest. One to be praised and named after long years from my passing_ He daydreamed.

"Brother, how far are we from Winterfell?" he broke the silence.

"Too far" Jaime answered. "But cheer up little brother, we've left the Neck behind us" his words everything, but positive.

"Already? But I've finally became acquainted with the bugs and the lizards" he cried, doing his best to impersonate a child's innocence.

Crossing the Neck was not a simple feat; a Maester had taught him once. Its land was treacherous, resource scarce and poisonous and its inhabitants worse. So the King and his family, his Kinsguard, the Lannister and the Crown soldiers, the hedge knights, the singers and the whores had to spent days marching in the longer route of the Kingsroad, around the swamps and bogs, a very tiresome, yet needed, action _. If only Robert saw fit to send a raven before his departure. These so called Cranogmen could've helped us._

Eager as he was to see the great realm of Westeros, Tyrion had to agree it would have been faster to take sail at Kings Landing to White Harbor, but the King dismissed the idea instantly. Robert wanted to feast, drink and whore at every possible castle and inn, it seemed. _Ah, the benefits of Kingship._

The second son of Tywin Lannister had liked the prospect of it, in the very start of their journey, but now the long days of marching bored him, and he was learning that that the North didn't have nearly as much castles or inn as much as the South. The last time he had a good roof to sleep beneath had been in the Frey household, The Twins. _Lord Frey was such a good host._ He thought, as he remembered the tasty foods and the good wine he helped himself to, as did many others.

The late Lord Frey had been very eager to be in the good graces of the Crown, and in Tyrion's. He had boasted of the quality and the many womanly skills his daughters and granddaughters had. _He sees them as little more than livestock to be sold._ In the end, Tyrion behaved as expected, listened, praised and even danced with _some_ of the weasel girls _,_ for all of them would've been an impossible task _. A shame that the brothels of the capital have better women. Or any in Westeros._ He thought _,_ almost feeling pity for them.

While Frey would not have a daughter married to a son of Tywin Lannister, at least the Lord of the Crossing would have royal bastards in his household soon. The great Baratheon King had deemed some girls comely enough, bedding and spilling his seed in _two_ of them, his brother had told him. Through he didn't need to. During the night, he heard the moans and grunts and cries, same as most of the unlucky ones sheltered in Frey's roof _. No wonder why Cersei was in such a fool mood._ He thought. _I almost feel bad for her._

To his great displeasure, he could not follow his Grace's lead, for his Lord Father had prohibited him the joys of a woman's body as long as he was in the presence of the Royal family. _You will not shame House Lannister_ , he said in a steel voice, once he heard enough of Tyrion's begs. _Don't worry, dear father. Robert, Jaime and Cersei are shaming our house better than I could ever do_. The answer never left his lips, for he knew _much_ better than defy Tywin Lannister in such manner.

Besides, even if he chose to disobey, it would do him no good, for he knew he was watched. Sooner or later he would be punished. _If only I had a taste for boys and men._ He sighted. _Perhaps Winterfell could be good to me too._ He thought _,_ helping himself to more of the delicious and warm liquid.

"Tell me, Tyrion, why do you think his Grace is travelling so far north?" Jaime resumed their conversation. Tyrion knew the answer to that question. _Everyone with half a wit knows._

"The late Jon Arryn fostered His Grace and Lord Stark years ago, in the Eyrie. It might be our King wishes to share his grief with someone close" he answered simply.

"Oh he might. But our King also seems to have lost a limb, don't you think?" Jaime japed and Tyrion let out a snicker, however simple and crude it was.

"Indeed. One must wonder, however, how Lord Stark would fit in Kings Landing, so far away from his northern seat" He voiced his thoughts. His brother, however, looked at him as if he was a mad dwarf.

"Tyrion, I have half a mind to agree with what Cersei speaks about you" he blurted, in a condescending voice. Tyrion didn't care, however. "The honorable Lord Stark has no place in the Court. He would last a fortnight at best, and would run back to this frozen wasteland. The Starks never fared well in the South" Jaime explained, with bitter poison words.

 _And the sea is wet._ Tyrion agreed with everything his brother said. To rule as Hand one must be willing to forgo values, must be willing to lie and needed most of all, to _outmaneuver adversaries with pure cunning,_ or so his father told him once. A particular set of skills Tyrion didn't think Lord Eddard had, given his reputation of a hard, just and truthful Lord. _But why do I sense so much resentment, brother?_

"Who knows, brother? Perhaps Lord Stark might be able to curb King Robert's excesses. The late Lord of the Eyrie was an old man, after all" He offered, and then resumed his drinking.

"The Spider and Illyn Payne are more likely to regain their parts before Robert manages his vices" He answered, and Tyrion choked on his wine, his laughter having the best of him this time. His brother, as ever the chivalrous knight, patted his back, helping him.

"Jaime that was good wine" he complained, but his brother didn't care, only mustering a grin in his beautiful face. Nor did Tyrion truly, for the Royal Party had brought an unreasonable amount of wine with it, as King Robert Baratheon would have no less.

"You should listen to him, Nuncle Jaime. Mother always says wine and whores is all he knows" His least favorite nephew made himself present, souring Tyrion's mood instantly. _All joys are short, it seems._

The heir to the Iron Throne, Prince Joffrey Baratheon stood on top of his mount with a knight's confidence, wearing fine black and gold clothes, with a heavy fur coat pinned to him with a golden brooch depicting a crowned stag. Surely being the prince of the Seven Kingdoms and the sharp and _ridiculously ornate_ sword strapped in his belt was the source of it. _I could have sworn it was the tall, strong, menacing dog at his side._ Tyron remarked.

Sandor Clegane wasn't bigger, stronger or crueler than his brother, but he was still big strong and cruel in his own right _. And loyal. Thankfully._ Tyrion thought as his eyes searched the knight close to him.

Clegane wore dark plate armor, as he always did. Heavy and sturdy few men could wear, let alone fight in it. At his back, his greatsword rested, a sharp, thick and deadly blade, often wielded with brutality and malice, as his reputation demanded. His face was covered by his helm, properly shaped as a snarling hound. _Men tremble at his they should._ After all, it would not do well to leave Prince Joffrey unprotected. Even after the end of the war, hidden daggers still stood. _And the boy does have a talent to make people despise him._

"Dear nephew. Come to enjoy my company? Perhaps my knowledge should be of use to you, as you _finally_ reached manhood" He answered, tilting his wine skin. His brother laughed beside him, and even Clegane let out a sound of amusement. Joffrey, however, didn't seem to appreciate his little jape. _Sadly_

"Real man have no need for whores" The bastard replied to him, skin flustering, whether it was because he was angry or embarrassed, Tyrion could not know, though he wished for the latter. "Uncle Jaime, mother has need for you" _Needs you couldn't imagine dear Joffrey._

The prince then decided to remove himself from his and Jaime's presence, and the Hound followed him fitfully. He and Jaime remained in silent until they were sure the boy would not hear, before allowing themselves laughter.

"Real men have no need for whores" Jaime quoted, doing his best to impersonate Joffrey's _not so manly_ voice "I wonder how Robert would react if he heard it".

"If he took it as a jape, he would laugh at him. If not, then Joffrey might remember the weight of his King's fist" _Such a sweet scene to witness_ he thought, as the scene laid out in his mind. The words coming out of the prince's fair mouth, the Kings features darkening in furry, the beautiful sound of flesh being hit, and the _most_ beautiful sound of childish cries. Cersei's would be close to bursting in rage, but would not dare say a single word, or she would suffer Robert's fist same as her son. All the while, in the corner, Tyrion tasted good wine. _The vision is too good to become true_.

"You should go, brother. You don't want to upset the Queen. Or do you?" He asked in his most suggestive voice. Jaime's eyes filled with malice, before he galloped to the Wheelhouse, leaving Tyrion alone to face the _incredibly_ dull march once again. _And without wine_ , as he realized he had drank it all. His day seemed to be insufferable, until two voices called to him.

"My dear nephews" He greeted them, gentleness in his voice. Unlike their elder brother, mother, grandfather and almost the entirety of both Baratheon and Lannister families alike, Myrcella and Tommen _truly_ liked him, and he in turn did whatever he could to put smiles on their faces. "What has got into you, leaving such prestigious company to see the likes of me?"

"You are a part of us, Nuncle. Even if mother and Joffrey likes it not" A beautiful blonde and fair girl properly fitted with the finest black and gold dress coupled with a thick fur coat responded, much to his delight. _She might look identical to her mother, but her heart is all Jaime._ And for that Tyrion would forever be grateful.

"He's our Nuncle. How could he not be one of us?" the youngest of the Royal children, clothed with a pile of fur coats fashioned in the same coloring as his sibling's garments answered, his childish voice cried _. If only grown men and women listened to children._

"I'm flattered and delighted to hear such words. But you two came after me for something, I'm sure" He spoke with no ill mood, as he could never speak to them as such. Tommen cowered, and Myrcella blushed. He did not mind it. If any harm was ever done, it came from his sister and her irrational aversion to him.

"Father is still asleep, mother is upset and Joffrey wishes not to be in our presence" The beautiful young princess answered him, in a low tone. Her little brother looked sullen as well. "I see" was all he managed to say, letting out a heavy breath. _They deserve much better._ His veiled scream was directed to their father, mother, brother and their _true_ father as well. "I'm no dwarf fool, but I'll do my best to save you from your boredom" He said, as he took the reins from her horse, pulling them closer to him. "Now hold still if you truly love your Nuncle" He instructed, before he threw himself at their mount.

The horse bucked and threatened to fall, but Tyrion deftly took control of the sturdy animal. Tommen laughed while Myrcella's skin became a tad paler and her eyes widened. "Nuncle" she cried and reprimanded him, but Tyrion could sense her amusement and that no harm was done. "It is very cold" He answered his action to her, and received an eye roll and a short smile. _Much better_ He thought, pleased. "Now be kind and remind me where we are and where we are heading?" he asked them.

"North. We are heading North, to a cold rock." Tommen answered eagerly, the previous smile still in his fair features. _It seems Cersei does to share her husband's eagerness. How surprising._

"Very good Tommen, we are indeed in the North. But I expected a better answer. Perhaps your sister could elaborate better?" he challenged.

"We finally left that horrible, humid, damp, place. I would say then we no longer are in the Neck. That means we ought to be somewhere in the Barrowlands?" She spoke, with hints of uncertainty but she answered all the same.

"Correct, my dear" he praised her "And pray tell me, where are we heading?"

"Winterfell. The castle of the wolfs" Tommen said, in much the previous manner. "The seat of the _Starks_ " Myrcella corrected him instantly. "They serve the Crown as protectors of the North since the Conquest"

"Correct. You did well Myrcella" he said, while giving her a peck in her face. She blushed again. "And you weren't far, prince Tommen" He _lied,_ but for a good reason, nonetheless. _The boy needs praise_. _They both do._

Cersei never tried to hide her preference of Joffrey. _Or could_. Even if she would swore she loved Tommen and Myrcella same as well. _They are in his shadow._ He mused sadly. Tommen and Myrcella were good, sweet, obedient children. _Much_ better than their elder sibling. And yet, the gods chose to give them a lesser place in the world. Tommen one day would serve his brother, perhaps as Kevan served Tywin, if the Elder was somehow forced to be gentler to the boy, but it was likely that their relationship would mirror Stannis's and Robert's. _Bitter and_ _always second to the elder._ Myrcella, however, would suffer a much different fate. She would one day marry for politics and someone's personal gain, not for love or will. _A princess she may be, but her fate shall be the same as any other woman._

"Did you know the Starks were once kings?" He asked them, eager to keep their moods high. "Have you ever heard the tale of The King Who Knelt?"

And in simple questions, Tyrion had his nephew's undivided attention. It was likely they had heard some of it before, but not from his mouth. _And that makes all the difference in the world._ He thought, as he watched their features lighten as the tale was told.

And in that precious moment, the monotonous march to Winterfell seemed to have lost most of its dullness, for he had something much sweeter and richer than any wine or any woman in the world could give him.


	3. Jon I

Ever since he left for Greywater Watch, three years ago, Jon thought everything would change when he returned. It did not. Winterfell's hard, dark walls still stood , one could still hear Mikken's making use of his forge, hammering relentlessly swords, shields, helms or whatever came his way. Gage, the cook, still had his wonderful palate, as Jon had tasted when he arrived. Ser Rodrick still bellowed instructions in the yard, his wisps till incredibly well groomed, only with a few more gray in it. Old Nan managed to look even older, but still kept her sharp wits. Hodor, her kin, was still the amiable giant; Maester Luwin still tended to ravens, scrolls and books. And yet, something felt amiss, something felt _wrong._

Prior to his brief fostering in the Neck, Jon once believed the ancient seat of the Starks to be his home, even if sometimes he had felt he did not belong. _A bastard has no home._ He remembered one of the Maester's lessons, years ago. Jon didn't believe the old tutor said it to cause harm, and yet it was true nonetheless. _It still is_ he thought, as he decided to rise from his bed and dress.

Jon had learnt of his parentage in his second name day at the Neck, when he turned five and ten. He thought to be a cruel jape.He had _hoped it_ to be. But Lord Reed didn't lie, to his complete shock and horror.

 _His face was harder than any stone, and his voice was heavy with grief._ Jon recalled. He also remembered his own reaction to it. He felt numbness cover his body and his breath leave him, as if he had plunged into the coldest river only in his smallclothes. Then his vison darkened, and all he could hear was the faint voice of a man calling his name. When he woke, Lord Reed's face loosed no different than a bow after letting an arrow loose, and tears dropped his eyes. _And mine own joined his._

It had taken days before he finally decided to confront himself. His father was no longer Eddard Stark, a man who has hard and stern but also gentle, caring and loving, but Rhaegar Targaryen. A Prince. A Dragon. _A monster_. And his mother was Lyanna Stark, a young girl who had been taken against her will; A girl who was dishonored and suffered in a foreign land, far from her betrothed, her home, her family. A girl who died giving birth to someone made of rape.

A foul feeling had struck deep in him then, and in there lingered, even to this day _. Breathe_ he said to himself, as the dark emotion resurged. _Your Lord has need of you._

Jon forced himself to bury his wild emotions, and focused on making himself presentable. He donned the same outfit he had worn the day of his arrival, as his old clothes no longer fit the man he became. He, however, had been gifted a better coat, which would serve well in keeping him warm in the cold day ahead.

Lord Eddard Stark had ordered his children to be ready at first ray of light of the day. A deserter of the Night's Watch had been captured, and justice needed to be served.

Outside, night still stood. But he felt no need for sleep. _All thanks to Meera._ He thought, as the image of Howland's reed daughter entered his mind. A young girl with dark hair as mud, a body lithe and agile as a snake, and deep green eyes, sharp as any lizard lion.

His foster Lord had commanded her to teach him the ways of the Cranogmen. And so she did. _Or tried to._ He thought, as he made his way to the main hall.

He and his companion spent months in the swamps and bogs of the Neck. Though some teachings he wished he did not learn. _I own my life to her._ He admitted to himself, without a hint of shame.

She had pulled him out of wholes that threatened to drown him in mud, cured him when his body went sick and frail, after he had eaten poisonous aliments, Bought him food and water when he went hungry, found him when he got lost in the mazes of the lands. Saved him from lizards-lions, snakes and other foul animals. _Again and again._ And so it was during his first year in the Neck.

In the second, Meera had deemed him capable of surviving on the perilous land of his own. In one night, she left him and never returned. _Gods, I was terrified_. And he truly was. Life was harsh enough with the presence of his tutor, without her it seemed impossible. _I cried and prayed, yet neither man nor god came to my aid._ When the cold seeped in his bones, his stomach roared and his throat had dried and his hopes died, he struggled, and survived _._

Jon had fallen on treacherous mud, was bitten and clawed, felt hunger, cold and thirst, fever and pain. And against all wishes he survived, even against his own. _Beware the wilderness, for it can break the strongest of men to no more than a beast._ Old Nan had once said, in one of her dark tales _. It didn't believe it then. I do now._ He realized somberly.

In time, the land broke him. The sun rose and fell, and Jon was less with each passing day. The memory of all that mattered to him seemed to fade. _Winterfell, Father, my brothers, Howland, Jojen, Meera, his mother and even Jon Snow._ All he cared for was the next meal, the next time water would touch his lips, where he would sleep. _Survival was everything._

By the time Reed's men found him, his hair went below his waist, his nails were black and long, he could not speak and his eyes were wild _. Or so she said. I could only feel fear and rage_. He did not surrender easily. They had to capture him with a net, after he struggled with four of them. He scratched, bit and trashed, but was eventually taken.

His mind failed him on much what occurred after. _I was bound with chains to a wall_ .He recalled. _And someone saw that I never lacked for food or water_.

Many days later the wildness in his mind subdued for a brief moment, as he recognized the dark hair, green eyes and lithe body of his caretaker. _Meera_ he had said, or at least tried to. Tears soon followed. _Mine and hers_. And from that day Jon regained himself, little by little, until the animal in him subdued. But it was never slayed. _Even now it only slumbers._

"JON" he heard a man call to him, and he was yanked back to the present. To the safe walls of Winterfell, to the warm hall and to the blue eyes and auburn hair of his brother, Robb.

"Robb" he said after a moment. "Where's Father?" he questioned, wandering his eyes to the hall. Luckily, only a few guards stood; the same ones who were already there. His face relaxed in relief. Only his brother had seen his confusion.

"He is still in the Solar" He answered, the worry still present in his features. "The others are still abed" Robb explained, as if sensing his next question.

He could only nod in acknowledgment. His elder tried to bring the truth out of him, but Jon managed to foil him _. It was the mead_ , he said to Robb, for Lord Stark had offered a feast to celebrate Lord Reed's presence, and to Jon's return the day before. His brother, however, didn't believe it, but thankfully ceased his inquiry.

Soon after, Theon joined them, without his usual confidence. The Greyjoy had drunk himself to a stupor the night before, and was carried to his chambers by guards. After him, Bran appeared, with a sleepy face. Lastly, his sisters descended, Sansa with her long braided hair, wearing a fine blue dress. Her sister, however, decided to dress more plainly. _Much more plainly_ he realized with amusement. Arya donned garments best fit to a sparring session. When their eyes met, she hurried to him, barely acknowledging the others. He mussed her hair, after giving her a warm embrace. _I missed her so much._ For not only she looked like him the most, besides the eyes, he never felt a bastard close to her, and she never saw him as one.

Lastly, Lord Eddard and his Lady wife descended. He greeted them properly, as everyone in the room did.

His Lord father had his usual hard face, but Jon could see anger in his eyes. One glance to the woman at his side and he knew they were not in the best of terms. Caitlyn dressed in a simple blue gown, while their father donned his usual garments. _Dark mail over boiled leather, as he always wore._ Ice rested on his back.

"You shall break your fast when we return" He said, in a steel stone _. His Lord voice._ Jon easilyrecognized, for it was a voice that cut deep into men. It held no room for disobedience. "Meet the horses outside. Ready yourselves"

And so they did, though only he, Robb and Theon were truly ready. It was far from the first time they had seen Lord Stark deliver justice. As he looked over, he could see Bran's face cowed. _He has seen it before_. Jon realized. His sisters did not. Arya was cheerful, no doubt eager to ride beyond the stone, dark gates of Winterfell. Sansa, however, was in a mood, Jon saw, even if she kept it well hidden. _Ever the proper lady. Will she scream and faint as a lady should?_ He hoped not. It would do her no good.

Lord Stark climbed his horse, just as well as a man half his age. Jon did as the others, and lined his horse behind his. At the front, His Lord stood, and Robb close behind, to his right. Bran was to his left. Sansa and Arya were in the middle. Theon stood on the left of the oldest stark girl, and Jon found his place at the right side of Arya. Four men armed with good steel protected them, one in the vanguard, two on the sides and one behind. A command was given, and the gates were opened.

Their ride was slow-paced and uneventful, the horses making much of the noise. His father rode in silence, for he would take no joy in his duty, Jon knew. Robb followed after him, for it would be his duty one day. Bran fared no better than before he left, keeping to himself during most of it. Sansa mood fared no better, for the Tully looking girl seemed to be bored and tired of riding already. Theon still felt the effects of the mead, and decided to rest as much as he could atop a horse.

Arya, however, was the only who seemed truly pleased, Even if the day was colder than usual or the fact she didn't break her fast. She was riding, and it all that mattered to her. Jon knew how his little sister loved to ride, and he did not have the heart to strip her of her joy. _Let father be responsible for it._ He whispered in his mind.

And soon enough, they've reached their destination, an elevated open spot amidst the woods. The grey sky towered over then, as if it knew what would occur. Three men awaited them, one covered head to toe in black, his arms chained behind his back. His face was gaunt, and any wit that might have been once was no longer. He didn't flinch when he saw the man who would end him. _Unlike most._

"Father, why are we here?" Sansa asked, her voice unsure, begging to understand

And yet Lord Stark said nothing, only giving a glance to his eldest son. Robb understood, as he held Sansa in place, instructing her.

Jon gently grabbed Arya, doing the same. He then looked to Bran, and he saw the boy has readied by himself. Still, Jon gently squeezed his hand on his little brother's shoulder, and Jon saw Robb giving his brother a reassuring look.

The oathbreaker was brought to the block, and Ice was unsheathed. Under Robb's grasp Sansa palled and her features softened, as acknowledgment upon her. She struggled and tried to move and turn but Robb's firm hand stopped her.

Arya didn't pale or tried to move, but Jon could feel her shaking. He bought her close to him, putting his arms around her. "Father will know if you don't look" he whispered gently to her. In return she stared him with some defiance, as if the notion was absurd. But Jon knew it not. _The first time is always the worst_ he thought, as memories of when he was a small boy came to him. No one eased him then.

"In the name of king Robert the first, of house Baratheon, King of the Andals,Rhoynar and the first men, I, Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North sentence you do die." He proclaimed, but none defied him. "Do you have any last words?" he asked, as it was tradition.

The old man only managed to mummer about old tales of ice demons and such. Jon pitied him, as he realized that the snow and the cold had maddened the man. His Lord father also saw it, but there were not pity in his grey dark eyes. Nor did Jon ever see in them when his duty beckoned.

Lord Eddard lifted the ancient weapon and descended it swiftly, the blade briefly singing in the air before cutting through skin flesh and bone effortlessly, as if it was little more than old parchment. The cleaved head rolled through the ground, as the hot blood poured into the pale snow.

Jon sensed Arya shudder and let out as gasp, but she took it much better than her sister. Sansa cried and her skin turned even paler. She shook as a naked old man in cold, and Robb's body kept her from fainting. Bran took it better than his sisters, as Jon managed to sense only discomfort from him.

"Gather his remains and send it to the Wall. Let his brothers bury him" The Lord ordered to some guards, and was obeyed. "We ride to Winterfell"

Jon thought as the way back was harder, for the warm fire in Arya was quenched by the deserter's blood. He hated it, but could not do anything, no one could. Arya's and Sansa's innocence was forever lost; for they had glimpsed the true nature of men in this day. _All men must die._

"The man died well" Robb said, as he beckoned his horse to throttle along Jon's.

"He did not. His eyes did not have any life in them. He died in fear"

"Still, it was a clean death. He did not cry or soiled himself like many do" Robb answered, and Jon agreed, nodding to his brother. An uneasy moment passed, filled with Sansa's sobs. "Race you to the gates?" His brother offered, as Jon knew Robb felt the same.

He was about to accept his brother's challenge and ride off, until he remembered someone much special. Jon turned to his little sister, and saw her eyes practically begging him to let her join them. Robb saw it as well, and they crossed eyes, in a silent debate. It was a terrible short one, as they nodded to Arya together.

The little girl's spirit seemed to be awakened, as she spurns her horse forward, shouting a challenge as she ran ahead. Jon smiled, and followed her eagerly, only hearing a faint of a curse made by Robb.

Ahead, he could only hear Arya's laughter, the sweetest song he had ever heard. His body quickly relaxed, and he found himself enclosed in her joy. And so they rode. Arya were always ahead, and Jon knew she would never lose it.

When his sister rode, she and the horse seemed to be one. She made swift that would make any other rider fall into the ground; she used to force her mount leap over obstacles whenever she wished, she did maneuvers that any sane person dared not, as if harm never crossed her mind while she was atop a horse. He himself never seen her struggle with a horse, and he doubted she ever did.

And for said reasons that a fear swept over him, and his heart was close to burst out of his chest. Arya's laughter ceased suddenly, as Jon could not hear her or her mount.

"Arya!" he said out loud, but the only sound he heard was from water rushing over rock. **"ARYA!"** He screamed, but only heard the fear of his voice.

"Jon" he heard, and relief washed over him. _Gods be good._ He said in his mind, and his lips made a silent prayer. "Over here" Arya said, as Jon forced his eyes to match his ears. He soon found her mount resting near the steam, as made way to it. _She cannot be far._

He brought his horse near hers, and dismounted, bringing his sword from the scabbard. His fist closed around the handle, as he used his senses to locate her. After a few steps, he noticed a trail of steps, and followed it with dire, for he smelled danger, he smelled an animal. A predator.

 _A wolf_ .He realized the scent of its urine unmistakable. His blood boiled and his features darkened, as he ran to save his sister. He didn't run much, as he found the girl staring into something.

"Jon, look" the girl said, as if she was stuck by a spell. She pointed, and Jon did as beckoned. His entire body froze.

Covered by the dark grass, the biggest creature Jon ever saw feasted upon the carcass of a stag. _A direwolf_.

"Arya, crouch" he whispered, as he lowered himself "Move your sight to the ground, don't stare at it"

"It won't hurt me. _She_ won't hurt me."

For a split second, his heart cried and crumbled as he _knew_ Arya would die. In the next, however, he could not believe his eyes. His little sister was petting the thing, running her little hand across the beast`s ears,. In return, the direwolf only whimpered softly, and _licked_ her hand. _This must be a dream._ To his dismay, all his senses attested otherwise.

 _This is madness._ He thought. But in the end, his curiosity won. He found his feet walking towards the grey beast, _cautiously, trembling_ , _anxiously_ , but they did. When the animal saw fit to leave Arya's comfort, it looked to him. Their eyes met, and Jon felt the beast tension for the briefest moment, before it came forward to nuzzle her head in his chest.

"She is heavy with pups" Arya spoke, but Jon could only nod, focused entirely on the wolf bitch, that decided to sprawl herself, whimpering. As blood was flowing on the ground, his wits finally returned to him.

"She's in labor". He acknowledged. "What can we do to help her?" Arya's voice filled with worry. "Nothing".

And so they've watched, the beast sprawling and turning and whimpering as her offspring was brought into this world. At some time Robb joined them, acting as he himself a few moments prior. The beast only lifted her eyes, but never bared any fang. _Three_ He kept count, three she had birthed. The first was white as the snow, and his eyes were blood red, Jon saw, his violet eyes stared into blood ones, for a second. It barely left his mother's womb, but already sank itself into one of its milk filled teats. After him, came another five.

Sometime, his father, Bran, Sansa and the rest of their party arrived. He heard threats, murmurs, gasps and cries, but didn't care. The white little wolf fascinated him. _Ghost. His name is ghost._

… _.._

Hello, there. Sorry for not answering the comments on the previous chapters, and for the delay as well.

With that aside, I would like to thank all of you very much for reading, reviewing and favoring this. The fic has almost a thousand views, and that's something for me. Secondly, I must warn all of you of a couple of things.

First, I must say that this is my first fanfic and that English is not my native language, so corrections, warnings and suggestions about grammar and things related are most welcome. Secondly, this story starts three years later than in canon. The consequences, unless specified, is that all of the characters are simply older. Last, but not least, I'm using Vandal Proof's timeline, TheMountainGoat's Planetos map and ASOIAF Wiki as my sources of information.

Now, answering reviews:

Moshi: thanks for pointing my mistake, oddly enough; it got it right in the next paragraph. Also, yes, the direwolves are still present.

Guest: Jon being fostered in the neck will have consequences. His martial prowess at this point should be somewhat consolidated, even if he has no real battle experience. Also, I'm grateful for the info's provided.

See you guys next week.


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